Only So Many Battles
by Splitbeak
Summary: Voldemort is snaking his way into Harry's mind slowly, painfully, and it's killing him. If Harry can't stop Voldemort soon he knows he's worse than dead. And the one person who can save him is the one person he wishes would just as soon leave him alone.
1. Know Your Opponent

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ONLY SO MANY BATTLES

By Splitbeak

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Disclaimer: Harry Potter ain't mine, nor any other characters that appear in the books. There shall be no sue-age! You hear me? No sue! (Please?)

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CHAPTER ONE: KNOW YOUR OPPONENT

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_"We are not playing hide-and-seek, Harry!" Voldemort taunted. He could all but imagine the trembles racking the small form hiding behind the headstone. As if he were truly safe behind what could easily be reduced to rubble with the merest incantation. He chuckled, hearing his servants chorus around him. Good. Let the fools know the force of his power._

_"Expelliarmus!" the boy's voice cracked as he shouted, trying to topple a troll with a toothpick. Voldemort's grin grew as he launched his final blow upon this pest._

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

Voldemort knew this part well. He still kicked himself fiercely in the privacy of his own mind that he could have _once again_ overlooked so basic a tenant of magic. As the spells connected, the Priori Incantatem lit up the graveyard. As always when he dreamed of this event he remembered the bright light filling his vision, the struggle to match the boy's will. And his failure.

The Dark Lord slept comfortably in his silk sheets, replaying the memory again and again in his dreams. Despite what that old fool Dumbledore may think of him, Voldemort was not a wizard to repeat his mistakes. It had never happened before, and but for this one blip, it will never, ever happen. So Voldemort did what any smart campaign leader would do: he reviewed his errors over and over until he understood what had gone wrong.

He studied the two figures ensconced in the bright shield, observing Potter's weaknesses. The boy was shaking and sweating fiercely; perhaps some tears were mixed in as well. But he held firmly, despite his obvious exhaustion and terror. Voldemort shook his head. No, the secret to defeating Potter lay not in an outright confrontation of the likes of Gryffindor; that much was certain.

The pulsing stream jolting between their wands slammed into dream-Voldemort's, and in that moment the glowing dome exploded. Voldemort felt the resounding impact ringing in his ears even knowing it was just a dream, a memory. He had experienced this before each time he replayed the events. He stood with his phantasmal feet spread, mentally braced for the burning magic about to sear his body to the core. It had hurt beyond all measure that night. Even the echoes he felt in his dreams were agony.

Tonight was no different as he felt the rebounding magic slingshot through his soul. He felt something in his periphery shudder and thought he heard a low moan. Voldemort paused, no longer interested in watching dream-Potter make his dash for freedom. No, it was this new presence that held his attention. Something or someone else was bearing witness and had responded to the magic unleashed in this memory-dream. This had certainly never happened before. Intrigued, Voldemort sent subtle tendrils of his mind across the graveyard, searching for the intruder.

Invisible snakes weaved through the gravestones, sniffing out the alien presence. Voldemort held himself stiffly, listening for anything abnormal. His head jerked sharply to the right when he felt one of his tendrils bump into the mysterious figure. Voldemort stalked towards the intruder, certain they did not yet know of their peril. Increasing his angle to be further away from his mystery prey, Voldemort walked around the hill that had acted as a stage for his legendary duel.

A hint of red caught his attention, causing his eyes to focus in on the red shirt of a boy silently watching the fight from behind a gravestone carved into an angel holding a heart. Voldemort immediately recognized the mop of dark hair, not needing the confirmation of the boy's face.

So, Potter had discovered his little study session then, eh?

Voldemort smirked. Thus far Potter seemed unaware of the real Voldemort's presence. The boy's gaze was riveted on the body of his classmate lying still on the ground. As dream-Potter grabbed hold of the portkey and Diggory and disappeared, real Potter stood as if to leave. No longer hidden by the stone, Voldemort was granted a look at his enemy's face.

Potter was clearly torn between fear and anger. The first was as it should be, the second annoyed Voldemort. What did Potter have to be angry about? He had won that round after all.

Voldemort snorted in frustration and prepared to exit the dream. Let Potter watch. There was no way for either of them to affect each other in the dreamscape.

A grunt distracted Voldemort before he could disappear, making him look at the boy. Potter had collapsed on his knees, retching. Voldemort froze, shocked. What had made the boy sick? Could he actually hurt him here? He watched and waited, hoping for some clue to reveal itself.

All things _do_ come to he who waits.

"Stupid, stupid," Potter mumbled to himself, shaking his head to clear it. "It's just a dream. It didn't hurt like that in _real_ life. It's just a dream."

If Voldemort had eyebrows they would have risen to the top of his hood. Potter had felt the backlash? Obviously not in real life, but at least in this reality he had. And not only had he felt them, but they had affected him enough to make him ill. Excitedly pondering the possibilities, Voldemort drew his wand. "Crucio!"

Potter never flinched, never acknowledged the curse. Voldemort frowned, knowing it had been too good to be true. Unwilling to give up, he tried again. "Imperio!" Again Potter had no reaction.

Voldemort sighed. An aberration then, but one that merited careful consideration. If his time in exile had taught him nothing else, it had certainly taught him patience. He would just have to pick at this mystery more carefully.

"Avada Kedavra," he incanted dully, if more out of longing than any real hope the spell would work.

Potter jerked, overbalancing and falling onto his back with a gasp. Voldemort barely registered his enemy's reaction as the world exploded within his mind. Visions of walking Hogwarts halls with another boy and a girl filled his mind. Laughing, stressing, arguing, studying, just hanging out… all the feelings of friendship Voldemort had so long denied flooded into his mind. Wind whipping his face as his hand closed around the spirited snitch burned his skin. A red, portly excuse for a man was bearing down on him, screaming in incoherent rage. The man's red face morphed into Voldemort's pale one with red eyes.

Potter's memories. Voldemort jerked himself back, gasping himself. He blinked as the graveyard came into focus, Potter still laying panting on the ground. Voldemort reached out tentatively with his mind and was surprised to not only touch, but to practically engulf Potter's with absolutely no resistance. Potter's mind was raw and wide open, offering no defense against his intrusion.

Disbelieving the power he held in his hands, Voldemort slowly, gently started exerting pressure on the vulnerable mind. Potter screamed, hands gripping either side of his head. The harder Voldemort squeezed, the more Harry screamed, but more importantly, the closer Voldemort felt to the mind. Some instinct inside him compelled him to try and align his own thoughts with the mind he held captive. He could not describe what he was doing, even to himself, but it was wonderful. This was his birthright.

Potter's continued screams were just icing on the cake.

Voldemort was becoming giddy with the power flowing from Potter's pulsing mind into his own. He could feel a vitality filling every pore in his brain. Vitality so young and raw he hadn't realized he was missing it. His youth was a long time ago.

Voldemort eagerly sucked, draining Potter's strength like a succubus. He was unstoppable. Nothing on this planet…!

A brick wall rushed up to meet him as the connection was abruptly severed. Voldemort screamed in pain and rage. His body shook, his thoughts scattered. What…? Where? He tried to put a coherent thought together, but all he was capable of acknowledging was that the power was gone.

He looked up just in time to see a black specter whisking Potter away, out of his reach. Voldemort sat on the imaginary grass, panting, unsure whether he felt revitalized or like his soul had been cleaved once more.


	2. Searing and Burning

_Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, and so forth. No profit has been made from this story._

_Author's Note: I'm sorry the chapters are so short. Once finals are over I'll make them longer._

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ONLY SO MANY BATTLES

By Splitbeak

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Chapter Two: Searing and Burning

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The light stabbed his eyes with thousands of hot pokers, boring their way into his skull and swirling his brain around his skull in jagged circles. Harry groaned, rolling away from the window pouring in the bright midday sunlight. The too small room was boiling like it had its own personal furnace. The air was too thick to breathe. Harry lay still on his bed, panting, desperately trying to breathe in, while the construction crew in his head desperately tried to drill its way out. All of his muscles ached from prolonged tautness, creating a general burning throughout his body. His heart was beating to fast; it threatened to explode out of his chest.

Harry reached for the window, his arm shaking madly, trying to crack it open just a bit to get some fresh air. The smooth cylinders blocking his way jerked him to full awareness as he blinked at the heavy black bars. _Right, Dursleys', _he reminded himself. Green-faced witches covered in warts would take over the wonderful world if he escaped through the two-inch crack needed to open the window just the smidgeonest enough to provide the littlest breathe of cool air. How silly of him to forget.

His hand fell heavily from the windowsill, landing with a thump on the creaky mattress. The small noise was enough to make him wince, ducking his head closer to his chest both to lick his wounds and escape the sun. Is this what Dudley made the big stink over when he suffered a "spontaneous" hangover that couldn't have been caused by him drinking, since he _never_ drank? (bull-, bull-, bull-) Harry hoped not; he didn't know if he could bear it if his cousin actually had a right to complain about agony, for once.

Carefully arranging his arms under his chest, since every movement hurt, Harry pushed up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed so he was sitting up. The room tipped dangerously and Harry found himself sprawled on the hard floor. His elbow caught the nightstand, sliding down the corner of the furniture on its decent. His glasses toppled from where they had been precariously perched on top of the rickety furniture, landing lens-down next to his bleeding elbow. Harry didn't need to see it to hear the lens crack; the second crack told him the frame had probably broken too. Harry groaned again, hiding his face in his crossed arms, wishing himself desperately back to sleep. This was definitely not the start of a good day. If only his head would stop pounding.

"Boy!" Petunia shrieked. Oh, so the door, not his head then. "What in the devil are you doing? This whole house has been the subject of your non-stop parade since you woke up. We took you in, _again, _after that horrendous display with that old man last summer, and you have the nerve to continue pulling these stunts?"

Harry peeked out from between his arms to squint at the pink blob that had to be his aunt- or a house-elf on crack. "It was an accident," he tried to explain, lifting up his elbow, but his lungs were racked with full-body coughs before he could get the first sound out. The dust from the floor was sucked into his mouth while he anxiously tried to breathe, making his hacking worse.

"Yech," Petunia sneered, stepping away from Harry as though his coughing were spreading the Plague. "You stop that this instant!" she demanded.

She probably said more things, but Harry was having a hard time hearing past the ringing in his ears. By the time the coughing had subsided, she was gone. His eyes stung with tears and the pounding in his head had only become worse. Harry closed his eyes tightly, just wishing the world would go away. At least it was cooler on the floor.

His drifting was abruptly cut off by the sudden relocation of Niagara Falls to just over his head. Harry jerked, wheezing, as he rolled away while simultaneously reaching under the bed for his wand. "I said, get up!" Petunia hollered.

Harry quickly withdrew his hand, realizing he wasn't being seriously attacked. But the adrenaline rush brought into sharp focus the dream from last night that to this point had only been a hazy memory. Voldemort! He reached for what was left of his glasses (he'd been right, only one lens and half the frame), and brought them up to his right eye. One angry muggle aunt holding a bucket still dripping water on the floor… check. But what caught his attention was the hall clock behind her. Harry almost wanted to believe the clock was broken, but he knew the Dursleys were neurotic about that kind of thing. It was really 5:30. As in, 5:30 pm, as in 17:30. Harry could only blink, dazed.

"It's 5:30," he croaked, amazed and cutting off his aunt's rant.

"What was that?" she demanded, putting her hand on her hips and letting the bucket drop. Harry was so surprised he didn't even flinch at the noise.

"You let me sleep until 5:30?" he whispered, still not believing. Since when did Aunt Petunia let him sleep past the crack of dawn? Was he even capable of sleeping that late? His record, and it was achieved at Hogwarts mind you, was 12:46. This wasn't even in the same competition.

"_Let_ you? As if I have any need of your lazy self taking up room in my house sleeping to all hours of the day and night!" She looked around quickly, making sure no one could hear their argument. Leaning down, she whispered so quietly Harry had to strain what was left of his hearing, "The only reason I've let you sleep for this long is because as long as you were sleeping you weren't eating my poor Dudder's food. You've been sleeping for two days straight, and now you wake up when it's almost sunset. You haven't been… you know?" She looked around again for the reported waiting to expose her connection to freakish-ness to all the major newspapers. Heh, wouldn't she have a heart attack if she knew about Rita Skeeter.

Harry shook his head. "Know what?" What was she worried about? What could possibly explain sleeping for two days and waking up with a hangover from hell? What had Voldemort done to him, and how could Aunt Petunia have known? Harry concentrated, wiping the sweat of his forehead with his equally sweaty arm, trying to remember the details of the dream, but it was useless. His exhausted mind just couldn't focus, couldn't grasp the details. It was so hot!

"-pire?" his aunt whispered.

Harry blinked. "What?"

Petunia rolled her eyes, informing him that not only was he as dense as she'd claimed all his life, but that he'd clearly suffered brain damage as well. "Were you bitten by a vampire?" she asked again through clenched teeth.

Harry stared at her open mouthed, wondering if he'd woken up in the Twilight Zone. Realizing she was serious and waiting expectantly for an answer, he shook his head no and immediately regretted it. The pain flared up again and he squinted against it, digging his hands into his eyelids so hard he saw random stars. Nausea gripped his stomach, and the smell of something foul filled his nose. When he opened his eyes he saw a pair of evil red eyes staring at him over his aunt's shoulders. "Look out!" he called in warning, rushing forward to knock her out of the way.

"What?" she screeched, as she was pushed into the wall.

Harry ignored her, braced to battle with the enemy. Instead, he was left standing where his aunt had been in his thin pajamas, wand still under the floorboards under his bed, and staring at the floral wallpaper decorating the hallway. He swayed, suddenly overwhelmed by dizziness and confusion. "He was here," he explained, feeling disoriented, turning carefully towards his aunt. "Voldemort was here."

Petunia had gotten up from the floor where Harry'd thrown her, and after seeing no one hovering in the doorway, sprang at her nephew angrily. "How dare you lay your hands on me!" She launched forward, grabbing Harry roughly by the arm and propelling him down the hall.

"No, wait, he was here!" Harry tried to warn her, but the room was swimming and he didn't know if he'd even gotten the words out. His legs barely supported his weight as his aunt pulled him along down the stairs to stand in front of his favorite door. Harry was too busy looking over his shoulder for the missing specter to realize what was happening until his aunt forcefully doubled him older and sent him into the blackness of the cupboard.

"No! He was here!" Harry bung his fist on the cupboard door to no avail. It was too cramped inside; he couldn't breathe. If he thought his little room had its own furnace, then the cupboard really was just at the border of Hell itself. His hair was still plastered to his face, and what was left of his glasses were probably shattered somewhere along the hall. Harry miserably curled up into as tight a ball as possible, but the walls were still too close. The familiar creeping along his ankles meant that his eight legged friends had found him again, and Harry realized he no longer felt comfortable with them in this little space. Memories of running from Aragog outweighed the little bit of company he'd had during his earlier days at the Dursleys'.

Voldemort had been here, in his house, and no one but Harry knew it. How was that possible? How had Voldemort even gotten in? What had happened last night?


	3. Leave No Ground

_Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. There is no point in assuming I do._

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**ONLY SO MANY BATTLES**

By Splitbeak

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Chapter Three: Leave No Ground

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Harry dreamed of the graveyard, covered in darkness and surrounded by malicious laughter. "We are not playing hide-and-seek Harry!" Voldemort called out to him.

Or Voldemort was calling out to where he should be. Harry remembered this dream all too vividly from real life. He knew that he should be behind the headstone Voldemort was speaking to, and yet here he was, on the other side of the death eater's circle. Harry frowned, wondering why he was here again. He didn't know why he'd dreamed of this place the first time, but here he was again.

Harry grimaced. After losing Sirius, the Tri-Wizard cup hadn't mattered so much anymore. He had bigger problems to deal with. If he were going to have nightmares, the Department of Mysteries seemed a more appropriate background.

"Ah, Harry. I see you've joined me once more," a silky voice cooed.

Harry spun, shocked to see Voldemort standing right behind him. Shocked, Harry turned back the memory to see Voldemort right where he should be: chasing down a frightened teenager. The Voldemort in front of him chuckled. "Surprised?"

"What do you want?" Harry spat.

The snake face split in a wicked grin. "To finish what I started." Without further ado, Voldemort's wand flicked in time to the wizard's "Avada Kedavra!"

Harry was caught up in the green light before he even had a chance to raise his wand. He felt the spell skewer him through the heart, cutting his chest in half and sending waves of roaring agony speeding through his veins. Harry screamed under the onslaught, vaguely hearing one of the Voldemorts shout his own cry of frustration.

Well, of course he was frustrated. The idiots! How could they have let the boy escape? What was the use of servants who failed to serve? The incompetence. And this was the mighty army feared by all of Wizardom that he would lead to conquer the world. He would make them suffer for this humiliation! Crucio! They deserved every last moment of pain. How dare they fail him!

Somewhere Harry heard death eaters screaming as they fell beneath the weight of the Cruciatus Curse. It was agonizing; he would know. Voldemort's made him feel it so many times. He… was Harry! With a gigantic heave, Harry pulled his mind away, suddenly hyperaware of how entwined it had become with Voldemort's. He could see in his mind's eye their thoughts weaving together tighter and tighter.

"No!" Harry shouted, pulling away mentally and physically at once.

Voldemort fell back with a startled gasp, and Harry took the opportunity to attack. "Expelliarmus!"

To his shock, nothing happened. For once acknowledging when he was in over his head, Harry took off running. His limbs felt oddly heavy, weighed down by lead weights. Lethargy possessed all his limbs, making each movement agony. Harry bit his lip, tasting a light trickle of blood. Every bone in his body wanted him to stop and rest, if only for a minute. He longed to give in, but he could _feel_ Voldemort hot on his heels.

Panting, Harry rushed between the headstones, remembering the path to the portkey and desperately hoping it might still be there. Maybe it could take him away from this place. Diving, Harry hid behind the tallest headstone he could find: the angel. The roughened cement that formed her base felt familiar beneath his fingertips making him wonder if it was the same one he had hidden behind last time, but he didn't have time to focus on that. Voldemort was chasing him; he had to keep moving.

He just needed to catch his breath first. It was so hot….

"Hello, Harry."

Harry didn't hesitate. He blindly cast a "Stupefy!" over his shoulder and bolted from the angel. He could hear Voldemort laughing behind him as the man once more cast the killing curse.

Harry dodged behind the nearest grave, seeing the headstone exploding in green light behind him, leaving him exposed. With a grunt, he catapulted himself towards the next nearest one, ducking his way between stones. Looking back, he realized Voldemort was between him and the portkey. Frantic, Harry looked for an alternative escape. How did one escape a dream? Over the rise he could see the old Riddle House. Was there shelter there? Seeing no other choice, Harry made his way towards the imposing shack.

"There are no exits Harry!"

The ground was slippery under his feet. His seeker reflexes were the only things that allowed him to keep his footing. The more he ran, the farther into the distance the mansion seemed. Was it actually retreating from him? Losing hope, not to mention the feelings in his limbs, Harry quested about for anything that might offer him shelter, even for a moment. A tree, a boulder, a bigger headstone! Or… a mausoleum like the one staring him in the face if he just looked past the ivy hiding it.

Counting his blessings, Harry stumbled until he made it to the dark building, praying Voldemort hadn't seen which way he'd gone. The building was well hidden; he might actually be safe if Voldemort doesn't see him enter! Desperately, he grabbed the door handle, silently begging it to open. The metal was unnaturally hot to the touch, but the heavy door opened with a great reluctance. Harry rushed inside and threw the bolt, collapsing against the door. The sound of his harsh breathing echoed in the stone chamber, sending dust motes flying.

Harry stained his ears to hear any sound, but he didn't need to. Voldemort was right behind him. Harry could feel him like a phantom limb. He knew his exact location, could practically see him through the door. He clutched his wand tightly, feeling it slip between his sweaty fingers.

The red trickling down his elbow caught his attention. He was bleeding from a good three-inch gash. When had that happened? Harry frantically searched his memories, but he couldn't remember cutting himself. Headstones had exploded, but he hadn't been hit by the debris. The most he'd fallen into was grass. And suddenly, the world fell into order.

"It's just a dream. It's just a dream," Harry chanted, willing himself to wake up. How had he done it last time? Cursing, Harry threw his head against the wall, regretting it when he was forcefully reminded that it was stone. He'd been in too much pain last time to remember what he'd done to escape. He could swear he heard Snape yelling at the top of his lungs, telling him to Occlude. Squeezing his eyes tight, Harry tried. _Breathe in, breathe out. C'mon!_

"Oh, Harry," Voldemort sang outside the mausoleum, jerking Harry's attention away from his breathing. "You've never hidden from me before. Don't start now."

Time was up. _Okay, c'mon, you can do this. Clear your mind. You're calm, you're cool. Nothing upstairs but sand._ Harry tried, but there was no way his mind was emptying when it was too busy screaming at him to run.

"Is this how a Gryffindor fights? By hiding? How very Slytherin of you," Voldemort continued to taunt. "I'm sure your parents would be _so _proud."

Harry snarled. How dare he? That was it! He wasn't going to die hiding in some old crypt. The prophecy demanded one of them die? So be it. Anger lent his limbs the strength they'd been missing before, allowing Harry to spring to his feet. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard someone sigh before an invisible hand mentally slapped him, sending him flying into the darkness.

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Bile scorched his throat as Harry sluggishly curled up on his side. The vomit trickled down his chin, pooling on the floor by his nose. It smelled awful, but Harry didn't have the strength to move away. The cupboard was too small to do so even if he had. He moaned, unable to do much more in the oppressive heat. All his muscles ached and his head hurt worse than he could ever remember it hurting. What had Voldemort done to him?

He could hear the television playing in the kitchen as his aunt cooked dinner. "Blackouts are occurring all over the area. With this heat, everyone's inside hugging their air conditioning units," the reporters were laughing. "I tell you, Don, it hasn't been this hot in southern England since before I can remember. We've got temperatures reaching forty-eight degrees celsius. I don't think we've ever had such a heat wave. And it's here to stay for a while folks. Electric companies are working on the problem…."

"Water," Harry called, barely above a whisper. "Please, water, water, water…."


	4. Last Minute Plans

_Disclaimer: Has anyone actually read a really interesting disclaimer? If so, I'd like to read it. They always sound so dry. Honestly, how can you really say "It's not mine, I didn't do it," sound interesting?_

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**ONLY SO MANY BATTLES**

By Splitbeak

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Chapter Four: Last Minute Plans

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The jarring sensation of cold water pounding continuously over his head brought Harry back to reality with an unpleasant jolt. "What?" he tried to sputter, only to have his mouth overflow with the bitter water. Struggling, he backed up a whole six inches before his back bumped into the cool tile wall of the bathroom. It was enough to escape the water, leaving Harry shuddering weakly in shock against the wall.

The roaring of the water stopped and Harry opened his eyes to see a Vernon shaped blob (or a hippopotamus- it's hard to tell sometimes) no doubt glaring at him over the rim of the bathtub.

"You'd think you freaks could handle the heat a little better, passing out like a little girl," Vernon sneered. "Well, get up boy. We're leaving, and don't think for a second I trust you alone in this house with all our things."

"Where are you going?" Harry asked, trying to get his bearings. Uncle Vernon had thrown him in the tub with his clothes on and everything. They weighed heavily on his aching body, but at least the coolness brought a little relief.

"I'm taking your Aunt and Dudley to Majorca to get out of this rudding heat! What's the point of air conditioning if it doesn't work?" Vernon groused. "Get cleaned up. When you're done you can clean up the mess you left in the cupboard. Five minutes!" With that, he slammed the door shut, shouting for Petunia to get him a friggin' lemonade before he overheated!

Alone at last, Harry levered himself carefully out of the slippery tub, his throbbing arm trembling under his weight. He quit his t-shirt and squeezed the water out, the throbbing increasing as his muscles tensed. Seeing the red stain still on his forearm, Harry rubbed it gently with the shirt, knowing the Dursleys would pitch a fit if he dared to use one of their precious towels. Inspecting the gash running a good three inches down the side of his arm, Harry hoped it didn't get infected. Moving towards the sink, he winced at the stiffness of his jeans. No point wringing them out; they'd take days to dry. Almost missing the counter, Harry rested heavily before running the tap. Letting it run cold, he slipped his head under the faucet, eagerly lapping up his first drink in over two days. It was pure bliss.

Harry drank all that he could, luxuriating in having a clean mouth and the ability to swish the water around, then spit it back out again. Re-soaking his shirt, Harry's fingers brushed across a discolored sticky spot. Ugh, vomit. Scrubbing it out the best he could, hazarding to use a little of the hand soap Aunt Petunia kept in some gaudy violet container. While the soap helped it smell a little better, the water thinned the vomit, making it streak down the side in a disgusting stream. With a sigh of defeat, Harry carefully swabbed his neck and face with the other side of the shirt, readily trading the smell for the sweet relief of wiping off the sweat layering on his body. Harry drank again until his stomach was so heavy he thought he would explode.

He turned off the tap, punishing his arm with one more wringing of the t-shirt, disgusted by how well the white showed off the vomit (even with his eyesight!). Hermione would no doubt have something to say about wearing something so filthy, even if there wasn't much of a choice. His stomach rumbled and before he realized what was happening, Harry found himself perched over the toilet, retching and clutching the porcelain for dear life. All the sweet cool water he'd just drunk burned its way back up his throat, leaving it more raw than ever before. When he was done, Harry lay over the bowl gasping, trying desperately to breathe around the fire in his throat. His parched lips cracked, pulling painfully against his skin and mingling the taste of blood with his spew. Harry depressed the flusher and watched the disgusting liquid swirl away. Stumbling, Harry made his way to the sink, the room tilting dizzyingly around him. Harry cupped more water into his hands, not even noticing the fine tremors, and brought it up to his face to drink more slowly this time.

"Boy! You done yet?" Vernon shouted, pounding on the door before barging in. Harry jumped, spilling precious water on the counter. "What's taking so long?" he demanded, reaching over Harry to shut off the tap.

Not giving Harry the chance to respond, Vernon hauled him by his good arm into the kitchen. He forcefully shoved Harry into one of the hard wooden chairs (Hey!) and slammed a pen and a crumpled piece of paper on the table. "You will write to those freaky friends of yours," he instructed, dousing Harry in his spittle, "You will tell them you are no longer welcome here, and you will tell them to come pick you up this instant. And for Pete's sake, you will put your shirt on! Your Aunt doesn't need to come in here and see such things."

Harry put his sopping shirt on as quickly as he could, which wasn't very, blinking in pleasant surprise. Leave? Okay. He couldn't write fast enough… actually, he couldn't seem to write at all. His hand kept slipping around the pencil. His fingers felt too numb and thick to grasp the wood. The harder he concentrated, the more his head pounded. If he'd had the energy, he'd have run his hand across his scar until the skin rubbed off. Maybe with a few less layers it would be less hot!

"Can't even write like a normal person, eh?" Vernon sneered. "What's the use of that _school_ of yours anyway?"

For all his jeering, Vernon made no move to actually help Harry write. Harry held one shaking arm in the other, and exerted all his will on controlling his hand. Harry eventually managed to scribble out a note that might have read, "Come get me." It was kind of hard to tell when he was all but blind without his glasses. Harry sighed, handing the letter to his uncle to approve. Vernon read it, but Harry couldn't see his reaction. It must have been alright, because Vernon was suddenly hauling him around the house again.

"Where's that ruddy owl?" Vernon mumbled as they barged into Harry's room. Hedwig! Harry couldn't believe he'd forgotten her. She must be so thirsty. No way any of the Dursleys would have taken care of her while he was out of it. And indeed, the poor bird was drooping. With an unexpected burst of energy, Harry dashed clumsily to her cage, fumbling to open the door. He reached in to pet her soft feathers, unsettled by her unnatural stillness. Hedwig slowly leaned her head into Harry's hand, butting his palm gently, but that was the only acknowledgement she gave.

"I need to get her some water," Harry croaked, coaxing the owl to step up onto his hand.

"Nonsense. Just put the letter on it and send it on its way," Vernon insisted, shoving the letter in Hedwig's face as if he expected her to just grab it and disappear. Who knew, maybe he did.

Harry looked at his uncle incredulously. "Are you mad? If she doesn't get any water she'll die in this heat. There's no way she can fly to the Burrow like this. My friends will never get the message. How…" Harry's voice gave out on him with a fiery flare mid-word.

Vernon fumed between the option of letting this connection to the magical world suffer as he wished all its associates to suffer, and getting rid of Harry, thus ending his own personal discomfort. The sound of the front door slamming into the wall, followed quickly by Dudley stumbling into the room. "Dad, when we gonna get outta this heat?" he panted, clearly lacking the energy to even bait Harry.

Vernon narrowed his eyes before his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Right now. Help your mother pack the car while the freak sends his owl." Dudley lumbered out of the room with a whine, clearly not relishing the idea of moving around any more than helping his mother do anything. "And you," Vernon snarled quietly at Harry, "Give that ruddy bird its water, then I want you out of this house. Do you hear me?"

"Yes Uncle Vernon," Harry answered just as quietly and with just as much venom.

He didn't have the voice to answer any louder if he'd wanted. Not waiting for his uncle to change his mind, Harry darted past the blob, clutching Hedwig tightly to his chest so she wouldn't fall. Once more in the bathroom with the tap running and water cupped in his hand, he tried to get Hedwig to drink. The poor bird was too tired to even perk up enough to drink. Trying to think what Hagrid would do with a sick animal (to think they'd never covered domestic pets in Care of Magical Creatures!), Harry placed Hedwig carefully on the counter, relieved when she could at least stand on her feet without falling over. Giving up on getting her to drink from his hand, he let the water fall back in the sink, and ran his wet hands along her beak, wetting it and hoping some would leak into her mouth. Hedwig just leaned her head heavily against his hand, letting him support the entire weight. Alarmed, Harry leaned over her further, causing his shirt to fall into the sink. Pulling back, the light bulb finally went off over Harry's head and he let the hem of his shirt fall back under the water. Once it was thoroughly soaked, he pulled it back out without wringing it. Bringing the wet cloth up to Hedwig's beak, he coaxed the material over he unresisting jaw. The water soaked into her mouth, and Hedwig swallowed involuntarily. Pleased, Harry removed the shirt and repeated the process. This time, Hedwig understood what was happening and opened her beak readily. Harry smiled in commiseration, all too vividly remembering that first drink after such thirst. Also remembering what happened right after said drink, Harry was careful not to let Hedwig drink too much.

Once Hedwig seemed more alert and began dancing around on the counter, Harry brought her up to his shoulder. Hedwig sidled right up against his neck, thanking him with little bird kisses. Harry gave her a peck of his own against her neck, relieved by the happy fluff of her feathers she gave in return.

"Feeling better?" he asked her. She happily cooed, assuring him that it would take more than a near brush with dehydration to slow her down. "Can you take this to Ron?" he asked, giving her the letter to take in her bill. Hedwig nipped affectionately once more, and flew off when Harry opened the window. He hoped Ron got there quickly.

"Is it done?" Vernon demanded as he left the bathroom. Harry nodded, wishing he'd thought to get a drink of water himself. Wondering if it wasn't too late, he started to go back before he was brought to a rough halt by his uncle's beefy fingers digging into the cut on his forearm. "Where d'ya think you're going? We had a deal. Get out." And without further ado, Vernon dragged him down the stairs, giving Harry no chance to react. Caught off guard by the initial pull, Harry over balanced on the first step, landing painfully on his knees. Assuming Harry was just being difficult, Vernon continued to pull him along, enjoying the thump Harry's knees created each time they hit a step.

Harry winced, trying to get his feet under him as his thin, ratty jeans tore, exposing his skin to the Dursleys' loyal wooden stairs that were all too happy to share its splinters with the freak. They passed Dudley standing in the front door, Aunt Petunia coming in behind him. Vernon stopped in front of the cupboard, but was cut off by his wife. "I've already taken care of it. Please, Vernon, let's just _go_," Petunia panted, over-heated herself.

With a dissatisfied grunt, Vernon tugged Harry away from the cupboard and across the tiled kitchen floor. Harry used the brief presence of the kitchen table for support and managed to get one foot under him before they reached the first cement step of the back patio. The other foot that was still dragging was scraped raw by the merciless cement. A thin trail of blood followed Harry as his uncle deposited him on the grass.

"C'mon Dad, let's go!" Dudley whined impatiently from inside the house.

Vernon towered over Harry, pointing threateningly. "You can't wait here for your freaky friends. But I warn you boy, if I find out that you've broken into our house with or without your perversion, it will be the last straw! Do you hear me?"

Oh, how Harry itched to take out his wand and curse the fat arse. His wand… that was still in his room under the floorboards. "My stuff…?"

But Uncle Vernon was already in the kitchen, no longer interested in his nephew past making sure he couldn't get back into the house. Harry heard the click of the lock turning and soon after the vrroomm of Vernon flooring the car out of the driveway. With a sigh, Harry sat up gingerly, hating his uncle for the deep aches that now plagued every muscle of his body. The glaring sun wasted no time erasing whatever relief his last bathroom visit had brought, creating a fresh sheen of sweat against his forehead and causing an immediate thirst to tickle the back of his throat. Harry glanced at his watch and had to stifle a groan. It wasn't even high noon yet.

Having been the one responsible for the household gardening for the last ten years or so, Harry knew there was no shade to be found in the backyard. Searching for any alternate source of relief, he saw the garden hose was still out near the gate. Standing, Harry nearly toppled over at his first step. He sat down again before he fell down and tried to massage his sore foot. Wincing, he abandoned the idea as touching it only made it hurt worse. His foot was so sore! Sitting helplessly in the grass, Harry cursed his bad luck. A few scrapes on the sole and side of his foot was hardly debilitating; he'd certainly had much worse. But at this point it was just one more injury added to a list of little hurts that were piling up to make one very exhausted wizard. If Death Eaters attacked he'd be a sitting duck. Pretty much literally. He had to get inside somehow and fetch his wand. In order to do so, he needed to get at least a little bit of energy back.

So he crawled carefully to the hose, ignoring the annoying pinpricks of the hot grass dragging along his ripped jeans and poking his bleeding leg. The metal knob that controlled the hose was hot to the touch and his hand burned as he turned it. The metal squeaked quietly as he turned the pressure up as high as it would go, and Harry eagerly held the green hose level with his mouth. A few drops of water dribbled onto his tongue, but no cool stream followed. Harry stared at the hose in disbelief before violently throwing the useless thing away from him and shouting his frustration. Those son of a—the Dursleys had turned the household water off on him!

Not even bothering to turn the hose back off, Harry vainly crawled a few feet away, if for no other reason than to separate himself further from the empty promise of salvation. Just once, just once!, why couldn't something go right for him? If Sirius were alive he'd never have left him to rot like this! Even Dumbledore had never let it get this bad.

Harry jerked himself away from that train of thought before memories of his former mentor could overwhelm him. An image of Snape pointing his wand at the exhausted old man flashed before his eyes, and Harry did his best to think of anything else. _Please, Severus…_. Bitterness welled up in Harry's throat as all the unfairnesses in life bounced around his skull. Well, he had a few hours to kill before the Weasleys came to get him, most likely, so why not spend his miserable afternoon fantasizing about his revenge? When he got his hands on Snape, he'd make sure the traitorous scum knew every last ounce of his pain.

Harry stretched out on his back, closing his eyes against the blinding light, and envisioned it was not he, but Snape, who was feeling the heat burning him up from the inside out, the water leaking from his body as he shriveled up in thirst and the righteous sunlight of all his victims searing out his eyes from beneath his lids. In the depths of his anguish, it was so easy for Harry to hate the world and those who made it even the slightest bit unpleasant.

The intensity of his rage died down quickly, and Harry felt a little better after mentally venting. Lethargy brought on by intense, unyielding aches settled into each of Harry's limbs, making his whole body sink heavily into the grass. His mind followed his body's example, and his dark thoughts were suspended as he drifted. If it weren't for the persistent aches, it would almost have been peaceful.

The shadow of a person standing over him spared his eyes from the blinding glare. Harry blinked the sunspots out of his vision, glad that Ron was finally here. He'd had enough of this heat. As his sight cleared, survival instinct flooded his system with adrenaline that had him shooting up from the ground like a rocket. Slapping his pockets, Harry felt nauseas to realized his wand was still in the house.

"Hello Harry," Voldemort smirked.


End file.
